Friday, July 30, 2010

I like this 26:

Dear Globlets,

I like these:

"Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind."
- Dr. Seuss


"I have come to believe that the whole world is an enigma, a harmless enigma that is made terrible by our own mad attempt to interpret it as though it had an underlying truth."
- Umberto Eco

Monday, July 26, 2010

Cold Seasons in Red.

Dear Globlets,

Approximately two years ago I lost her. We were moving and in that familiar, chaotic process, something happened that separated us. I didn't even remember what it was but it had a devastating effect on our relationship. I looked everywhere for her but she left no signs, no clues... she just left. I assumed she decided to get up and walk away one day. Perhaps I neglected her too much over the summer. A note would have been nice. How long would she be gone for? Was she ever coming back? Would I be able to reach her while she was away? No. I was heartbroken.

I spent days in closets among numerous shelves and hangers, searching. I spent hours ripping open taped-up cardboard boxes, searching, yet I found no trace of her. No pictures, no piece of her to help me remember the autumn and winter days we spent together. For two years, the coldest seasons of the year were of the coldest I'd ever felt and it was because I did not have her. I wanted her, I needed her, and I never ceased the search for her even to this summer. We were so wonderful for each other.

I'd sometimes dream about her, and you know how ridiculous dreams can be. I would find her in the strangest places. One day she was under the bed, another day she was in my winter boot, and another she was playing with my cat (something most will never have the privilege to do and live to tell the tale). How I longed for her company once again. How I longed for her warmth. I wondered if she ever felt the same way that I felt about her. I hoped that she did. I could never, and would never, find another that came even remotely close to her. She was the best and I loved her.


The other day, after a night out on the town, I came home and decided to look for the camera that preceded my Canon XSI: The Epson. I nearly rearranged my entire walk-in-closet-sized bedroom in order to dig it out of where I kept it. After returning my books and desk to order, I grabbed the red camera case and unzipped the lid to reveal two things I had not seen in quite some time. One was The Epson, the other... was her.

I could not believe it. What was she doing there, of all places?! What fool would have put her there, left her there, and then forgotten about her? I immediately pulled her out of the camera case, put my fingers inside her just like I used to do, and set her on my head. My red beret! After two years of agonizing separation, I'd found her. We rejoiced and celebrated, and it was as though there never was a minute that separated us. The past had been erased and we were together again. We were just where we belonged.

Unfortunately, it is summer now and we must wait until autumn to become one again, but until then I will not let her out of my sight. She is mine once more and I am hers. My red beret, how I love her.

I like this 25:

Dear Globlets,

Alive?

I like these:

"Lies are like children: they're hard work, but it's worth it because the future depends on them."
Pam Davis


"An opinion should be the result of thought, not a substitute for it."
Jef Mallett

Saturday, July 24, 2010

I like this 24:

Dear Globlets,

I like this:

"Men live in a fantasy world. I know this because I am one, and I actually receive my mail there."
- Scott Adams

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

My skin is being a spell check.

Dear Globlets,

Lately I've been thinking about my body a fair amount, resulting in the same old - same old, all too familiar dissatisfaction that I mentioned in my last post. "It's not bad." "It's better than others." "Ugh, I'm so fat." "At least I HAVE boobs." "Have my thighs always been this huge?" "I've got to do something about this." *pinch*

So, naturally, I dove into a container of this:



Fear not, globlets. My mom and I have decided to start going to the gym again. We were going every Saturday while my brother was taking a course at the same facility but since it ended we haven't kept up the routine. I go to school Mondays and Wednesdays so we were thinking of going on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I hope we stick to this. After all, the membership wasn't cheap so we'd better make good use of it. I bet you it would improve my self confidence, or at least bring it up to the level it was at last month.

Another thing, probably the majorest thing, that has brought be back down to my typical "You're rather rubbish" confidence level is my skin. I haven't written about it because I've been hiding it every way I could for years; I've literally been covering it up. Right now I'm scared to say it. I'm worried and I'm not sure why. - That you'll know something personal about me? Something I'm sensitive about? I'm quite certain we're past that, if I accurately recall some past globulations on here.
I think I swallowed some toothpaste.
What I'm trying to say is, for years I've had really bad acne on OH SNAP I ALMOST SAID IT. Okay. Hold on. I'll get it. Okay. Maybe it's heartburn. I'm not trying to change the subject! Oh shit, I do this in real life and now I'm doing it on the internet. Now I'm going to say that I don't even remember what I was going to say and you're going to either play along a little longer or get pissed off with me and then I'm going to feel bad and say, "Oh, I've made it into such a big thing when it's really not big at all." And you're going to think about leaving me until I sigh and begin to tell you that I've had back acne for a very long time.

You might look like this right now: =/ and are in utter disgust, wishing you hadn't decided to stalk me after all. I am so tired of this song right now (Time by Alan Parsons Project). I'm also really tired of the acne. In fact, I got so tired that I (somewhat reluctantly) went whining and begging to my doctor when the acne spread to my most cherished, beloved, sacred part of my body: my décolletage. It was just a tiny bit, but that was just a tiny bit too much. I had it on my back for years and I never wore a tank top without a cardigan or light sweater, but as soon as the shit had the nerve to venture to a place it most certainly did not belong on, I flipped my lid. And then I flipped open my wallet open to reveal my handy-dandy CareCard! I paid $5 for a $65 benzol peroxide cream/gel; bless my wonderful father for having a good job that allows for fantastic medical coverage... at least until this September. Dick. Anyway... I smell nice. Anyway!... Have you ever met anyone so ADD in your life!? Probably someone who actually has ADD, I'm thinking. ANYWAY!...

The benzol peroxide worked although it dried the complete shit out of my skin and upon contact, likely due to a great flaw of mine (having sweat glands), bleached a few of my clothes. But it worked, globlets! It took a couple of months but by the end of that time it was cleared up nicely. I stopped using it. I didn't need it, plus I was advised against exposing it to the sun and it had become summer. My skin was getting nicer still, just with soap and water. I wore tank tops. Outside. With nothing covering my back or shoulders. I wore tank tops, globlets. I wore tank tops.

I was also more confident in myself even when I wasn't wearing anything that exposed my back. It was a good feeling, unlike the kind of self confidence that makes you feel terrible, of course. That changed. I got one. And then I got another one. I felt some more. Now my skin is far less smooth than it was just a while ago and I'm back to cardigans and dreaming of soaking my body in hydrogen peroxide. Hydrogen peroxide, not benzol, because of the positive, badstuff-killing properties of hydrogen peroxide and the negative, drying-out-of-the-skin caused by benzol, although I'm not entirely sure that would work in any case.

I have a few options: One is to do nothing because it won't matter what I do, what product I use, because the acne will come back again anyway and I might as well suffer even longer now rather than dish out money to be temporarily happy and extremely dry-skinned. Another is to go see my doctor, get on my knees and beg for another prescription. I'm not sure how much I'd have to pay after September. The third option, also the option that is growing more and more appealing, is Proactiv. Its base is benzol peroxide, so I'm pretty sure it would work and it might be a lower concentration which would result in less dryness and less bleaching. I've heard good things about it from people I know, people I trust. I worry about how much it's going to cost me, how dependent I'm going to end up being on it and if I'll ever be able to stop using acne-killing products. I reckon my hormones have recently decided to go berserk for some reason. They never tell me why. They just go off and do their own thing, leaving me in the dark, resembling a chickenpox victim. Fuckers.

I feel so attractive right now. At least my hair looked nice today.

It's almost 1 in the morning. I have to tell my phone to wake me up at 9 instead of 8 or else I'll be a twat tomorrow. My spell check doesn't like the word "twat;" therefore, that's precisely what it is. - A twat. I could not live without my twat. I could, however, live without acne, but can I?

If you have an opinion or a fact you want to share regarding acne treatments, please do so. That is, unless you're going to be a spell check about it.

Thursday, July 15, 2010

Unhappily Ever-Dissatisfied.

Dear Globlets,

For a couple of days I've been in a particular mood, a mood not unknown to me in the least, for I know well what it does to me and how it can be cured, and I also know that it rarely is cured. It's the feeling that nothing about me is good.

Oh snap, she's going to write some hormonal teenage bullshit... Yeah, well, it's on my mind. Bite me.

I don't know how many times I've taken a step back from myself to critique my own body. (see link to article below.) All the hard work to rid my mind of stupid thoughts that I've been doing for so many years gets so easily washed away. It's happened on numerous occasions throughout the years, but more work always needs to be done.

I was thinking it might be because I no longer have a man to tell me I'm beautiful, but that's a crummy reason. I don't think I should be dependent on having a man who tells me what I want to hear just so I may be satisfied with my appearance. Sometimes the man would not remind me of what he thinks of me for a long time anyway.

So, what's the deal?

I just feel unattractive. Everywhere. My face is imperfect. My arms are imperfect. My chest is imperfect. My breasts are imperfect. My back is imperfect. My thighs are imperfect. My abdomen is imperfect. My calves are imperfect. My skin is imperfect. Therefore, I am an inadequate human being and should either remain locked up at home for all of eternity, never venturing out to the world to be among other humans, or simply sent away. I am partly exaggerating. I do feel like all those parts are less than satisfactory but I know that that isn't something that should or would exclude me from the human race in any way. It's absolutely ridiculous, I know, and I should get over it, absolutely, but all the rationalizing in the world has yet to allow me body satisfaction. What would change now?

I was doing well for a long while. I felt confident, I felt unashamed, I felt strong, but then one day that changed back again. I saw someone else, I compared her body to mine and I was disappointed with what I saw in myself. I don't even know if that someone was a real person or just an image I conjured up to torture myself with.

Am I really that bad? Are people lying when they tell me I'm not that bad? Sometimes I feel like they are.

"If she's beautiful, how could I possibly be beautiful too?"

I hope this goes away soon. I'm pretty tired of it. It's like I remembered, all of a sudden, to be self-conscious again because I'm not really as good-looking as I'd been thinking I am. And after all the things I've written about body image...

... Here's the essay I wrote for ENG092:

Oriana Varas
Unhappily Ever-Single

Due to the portrayal of women in the media, real women are led to believe that the pursuit of happiness is intimately intertwined with the pursuit of a man. It begins with “once-upon-a-times” and “happily-ever-afters” and is followed by the never-ending beautification required to attract and keep a man.

From a very young age, girls are conditioned to view happy endings as when the boy gets the girl. Sleeping Beauty, Snow White and Cinderella are just a few of the many fairy tales most girls love. Princesses by definition are beautiful, kind-hearted, thin, heterosexual, monogamous, single, and patiently waiting for romantic Prince Charming to come riding on his white stallion to sweep them off their feet. Nearly every little girl loves horses, pretty dresses and romance; therefore, it is no wonder so many of them want to be a princess. Once girls have outgrown these stories, they are fed a new kind of story through television programming said to be geared towards teen and preteen girls: the teen drama. Some of these programs include Gossip Girl, the Degrassi series and The Secret Life of the American Teenager, whose main focus is the romantic relationships the characters have with each other on the show. After teen dramas come shows like Cougar Town, Desperate Housewives, Grey’s Anatomy, and Sex and the City, where the goal of the lead female characters is to snag a man and tie him down. In brief, almost everything in the media geared towards women, from the time they are little girls until they are grey-haired, is about the boy getting the girl.

Perfection, as we all know, is impossible to achieve, yet many women actively pursue it because they think that being perfect is the only way to get a man. According to the media and today’s standards of “perfection,” one needs to have round and perky breasts, thin arms, toned legs and bottom, a pretty face, unblemished and hairless skin, and, most importantly, a small waistline if they want to attract a man. These are also the requirements of being a celebrity. However, celebrities (porn stars and models included) have the means to meet these standards whereas the majority of women in the world do not. Celebrities have the money for cosmetic surgery, the time to exercise 6 hours a day, the expertise of hair stylists and makeup artists at their disposal, the will to eat next to nothing, and the tall, thin body type that only genetics can bestow upon them. Even so, we are constantly surrounded by images of these artificial women and, when viewed, one question in particular frequently comes to mind: Is that how I am supposed to look? It is difficult to assume otherwise and even more so when many men seem to think women who look like supermodels are exceptionally beautiful; for, if they are beautiful, how could a normal woman be beautiful in comparison? Furthermore, in his article titled “The Objectification and Dismemberment of Women in the Media,” Greening argues that “[to women,] if every body part is not flawless, then the possibility for beauty is ruined.” He also argues that women and girls “view the body as a ‘work in progress’ or something in constant need of alteration [. . . and. . . ] instead of being satisfied with their body as a whole, they concentrate on what separate entities they lack.” In addition, magazines like YM, Seventeen and Cosmopolitan feed on and encourage the idea of body perfection. With taglines like “25 ways to get the man of your dreams,” “20 ways to sex up your look,” and “What he thinks when he sees you naked,” these magazines are like guidebooks on how to be as beautiful as possible in order to attract members of the opposite sex. In fact, nearly 86% of 12-to 15-year-old girls and almost 56% of 16- to 19-year-old girls read Seventeen magazine, and nearly one third of 16- to 19-year old girls read Cosmopolitan regularly, just to get all the help they can find (Simmons Market Research Bureau 1998). Moreover, according to a rhetorical analysis of YM by Duffy and Gotcher, the magazine creates a world where
“young women must attempt to discern the minds and desires of young men in order to attract them. It is a place where they must costume and beautify themselves to achieve an almost impossible physical beauty ideal. And, it is a place where sexuality is both a means and an objective, where the pursuit of males is almost the sole focus of life.” (32-48)


It is unfair to feed women an unrealistic idea of what a perfect body should look like and offer the cures to one’s normal yet flawed body. It is unfair to reduce a woman’s purpose in life to trying to attract a male. It is unfair to expect a woman to look like a model in a Victoria’s Secret ad because not even the model in the ad looks like that in real life thanks to digital image alteration. Although it can be difficult at times to ignore the messages the media provide us with, it is crucial to remember that happiness is much more than being in a heterosexual relationship. There is more to life than pursuing men by trying to become an inhumanly beautiful and sexy princess, especially since beauty is only skin-deep while true beauty lies much deeper.

“Be sexy, but not a slut. Stand up for yourself, but don’t be a bitch. Be thin, but don’t have an eating disorder. Play sports, but don’t be too aggressive or competitive. Be smart, but not a nerd. Believe in yourself, but don’t be conceited. Speak up, but don’t be too loud or have a big mouth. Be original, but not weird. There are some of the stupid standards people expect from girls and women.
They’ve made this perfect girl that we all strive to be. But we don’t have to fulfill anyone’s sick idealized dream. You DO have the freedom to be what you want to be.” (Brown, Steele, Walsh-Childers, 192)



Works Cited

Brown, J., Steele, J. and Walsh-Childers, K. Sexual Teens, Sexual Media. Mahwah, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates, 2002. Print.

Duffy, M. and Gotcher, J. M. “Crucial advice on how to get the guy: The rhetorical vision of power and seduction in the teen magazine YM.” Journal of Communication Inquiry, 1996. 20, 32-48. Print.

Greening, Kacey D. “The Objectification and Dismemberment of Women in the Media.” Undergraduate Research Community. 5 (2006). Web. 2 June 2010.

Simmons Market Research Bureau, Inc. Simmons Teen-Age Research. New York: Simmons Market Research Bureau, 1998. Print.

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

Summer Lovin'

Dear Globlets,

Today is July 6th. Today is summer. It has not felt like summer for this entire summer yet and damn right I'm complaining about it! The WINTER temperatures in Chile have been far too similar to ours over the last few weeks, which is completely WRONG in my mind seeing as it is SUMMER here and WINTER there. People are dying of heatstroke in the East(not really)... why not share some of that? Sure, it's been sunny, but has it been warm? Not very. And if it has, it's been partly cloudy OR a weekday. Yay! A weekday: a day of the week during which I must work or study and NOT go outside to throw the ball around or sunbathe. And I was hoping for some sun this summer. We have a tanning moisturizer that I'm using on my poor, pasty-white legs.

However, there is a great deal of REAL sunshine and, potentially, REAL warmth coming our way! It's almost as if summer is starting. I wonder how long it will last. I really hope it does last.



Oh, sunshine AND warmth, how I've missed thee. Oh, summer dresses, how I long to wear thee. Oh, the word "thee," how unsure I am of the correct usage of thee. Oh, Google, how I'm not going to use thee to look up the correct usage of the word "thee." Because I'm lazy. And hungry.

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Dear Globlets,

Check out this post on Pharyngula.

Apparently scientists are still baffled as to what electricity is...

... You heard me.

- Why Christian science is NOT okay!

Sunday, July 4, 2010

I like this 23:

Dear Globlets,

I like this:

"When you think of the long and gloomy history of man, you will find more hideous crimes have been committed in the name of obedience than have ever been committed in the name of rebellion."
- C. P. Snow

Auf Achse - That's how he keeps me.

Dear Globlets,

This might not be a globulation you wish to read because I might say things you don't want to hear (read) me say. Regardless of what you wish to read, what I'm about to write is something I feel like I need to write. I will not refrain from writing something just because someone else won't like it. That would go completely against everything I stand for. But, as a fair warning, you might want to skip this one, except something tells me that this warning just makes you even more curious...


It's as though he was a snake that one day cunningly crawled along my ankle and sunk his sharp, shiny fangs into my skin, unleashing a peculiar yet potent venom into my bloodstream. Naturally, it immediately attacked my heart, although I did not realize it at the time. The first time I felt the excruciating pain was by far the worst. Usually, a venom kicks in and you die. (Un?)Fortunately, this was not the case. Instead, the pain that the venom produces comes in waves and you can sometimes suppress it temporarily. The venom was activated when he had intercourse with another woman. Each time I've felt it since the first wave it has hurt less, but the pain has never disappeared. I was told that it might never, not unless I find that snake again.

Another analogy? Okay.

He has his hand around my neck. When I don't think about it, when I'm with other people, his hand doesn't touch me but it is still there, open and waiting. When he messages me a quick "hello," I feel his hand touch my neck. He touches it softly, like a caress, and it feels good because it doesn't happen very often, but he always has his thumb on my throat. My heart lifts to greet him: hope. My mind calls for it to come back down: reason. I don't know which to listen to. I don't want to listen to either one. When I hear one particular song, I feel his grip tighten; I don't listen to it any more. When I see his photographs and the happiness in them, I can feel his hand grabbing my throat. I don't look at the pictures.

It is strange though - not wanting to listen to my heart nor to my mind.

Now I'm nailed above you
Gushing from my side
It's with your sins that you have killed me
Thinking of your sins I die
Thinking how you'd let them touch you
How you'd never realize
That I'm ripped and hang forsaken
Knowing never will I rise
Again


Yesterday morning he texted me saying, "How are things up there?"; last night I cried myself to sleep. No man should have this kind of power over me, especially since he doesn't even know that he does. I think I prefer the limbo he keeps me in to anything else. When he speaks to me after going for so long without, I try not to let certain thoughts be thought but I do not always succeed.

I start remembering how we stayed up late talking so many nights, how he approached me during my first week of camp, how he made me feel when I was with him and how well we clicked. I get happy (he made me happy) and I feel hopeful that something magical will happen and the restrictions in our lives will change. Then I get sad because I realize nothing will change. I get even sadder when I remember how much he has hurt me and then more so when I think about how he doesn't even know the scope of the damage, or perhaps that there is any at all.

Sometimes I think about what it would be like if we got together. For about ten seconds it sounds like a nice idea. Although this part of me exists, I don't want it. I don't want it not only because he has been known to sleep around and I don't think I can trust him, but because I'm afraid that it won't work. I'm afraid that despite how I feel about him, we will end up not working well with each other. I think I'm happier not knowing. However, if one day the stars align and somehow I'm able to trust him, I'd consider it - hopefully not too quickly. The time and place has been so wrong for us this entire time. He lives in another country and now he's happy with another girl.

My mom explained to me the difference between "envious" and "jealous." I cannot be jealous of something I do not have; therefore, I am envious. I suppose the other girls at camp were too, that one year...
Are you ready for a history lesson? Just remember, don't try this at home... or anywhere.

August 2006, he came up to me in the Lodge as I was looking over the camp schedule. He asked me questions about myself and I smiled, replied, and told him I could barely hear him over the ruckus being made nearby. He suggested we go outside to talk. He told me he had a girlfriend and after finding out that I was single he said, "Maybe I shouldn't have told you about my girlfriend then." I laughed a nervous giggle. I remember thinking how strange but nice it is that this great person has come up to me and is talking to me. AND he's a boy. He told me he would have talked to me the day before, but wearing my green ARMY t-shirt, I looked a little intimidating. That evening I had on my black Rolling Stones t-shirt and brown cargo pants (that I miss terribly). He was my first real kiss (the one when I was 11 doesn't count - Bleh!). I was so embarrassed. As soon as we kissed I said I was sorry and that it wasn't good and that I don't know how to do it. Besides, he had a girlfriend! - I reminded him. "You're right," he said, but then he looked at me for several seconds in a peculiar way, pulled me close and kissed me. I resisted but gave in pretty quickly.

After this, the nights of this first week at camp fuse together. 3AM was the average time I went to bed that week; we talked nonstop. It was my favourite year of camp for more reasons than just him, but he certainly added a lot. I was only there for first session. He was staying for two. I left with good memories. He must not have had as memorable of a time as I did since he had sex with someone the week after I left - not his girlfriend either. (No, sex is not allowed at camp, but that hasn't stopped some people.) That was the first time he made me cry. It just hurt. He wasn't there the following year.

I suppose I forgave him because he came up to visit for a while. He was "taking a break" from his girlfriend at the time and, of course, we did stuff. Not all stuff. We both agreed that it was just for fun, that we would not and could not have something more than this fun. It was a lot of fun. He was the only one who ever really encouraged me to do the things I love. He ended up getting back together with his girlfriend when he got back home. I was only a little sad; I didn't let myself feel more for him. Both he and I were going from single to taken and back and forth for a little while, until he told me he cared about me more than anticipated. We talked a lot in this time. We decided to "hook up" at camp the coming year - my third.

It was evident that he practically had to beat girls away with a stick, the way he was being pursued. One night I was lying in my bed, in my bunk, in my designated cabin, trying to fall asleep when two girls came in. I recognized them; they probably didn't know I was there or that I was awake. I heard one tell the other about how "he" wasn't getting involved with anyone because he's already with "her" this week. This week. I also saw girls, including this one, practically climbing all over him. I can imagine him reclining in the field saying, "Ladies, please!" But he was with me. That week. It was also pretty evident that I was "with" him.

My first summer with him, he took my first kiss. My second, he took my virginity. On the last night. That's a scary thing to say.

I walked into this one with my eyes open. I think I was in denial with the idea that when he said, "Just you this week," he really meant only this week and could not be held accountable for what happens in any following weeks. Exactly what you think happened happened. He got together with a different girl. She was such a nice girl and I really liked her, so it was strange that she got together with him because I thought she might have seen him and me together the previous week. At the same time, it's understandable that he went for her. They didn't go all the way, I don't think, but I got to see pictures of them sleeping next to each other and snuggling. That felt great.

For months we didn't speak to each other. What he'd done made me sick. It made me sad. It made me feel like I meant nothing. It made me realize that I really must not have. It made me decide that I should never and will never be with him. It made me unable to trust him. It made me angry. It made me cry for months.

I can't remember when it happened - whether it was before or after we slept together - but at some point, and I think it was after, he said he loved me. All the barriers I had originally put up to protect my feelings, already weakened after being cheated on by someone who wasn't even mine, came crashing down when I heard those words. I realized I felt the same way without the barriers. I told him, but it didn't make a difference. He had the nerve to tell me once that if there was a good flight school up here he'd consider moving North. He wants/wanted to be a pilot. Oh, the stewardesses. There are gaps in the timeline, probably because I've tried so hard to forget it all.

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind comes to mind, and as much as I want to forget everything about him, I don't want to forget anything just the same. This is what I meant by "limbo." I don't want to talk to him because I will remember the good times and want him all over again, even though I can't have him. I don't want to forget because I like the memories. I don't want to try and pursue a relationship with him because he's probably happy and I'm terrified that it won't work.

I'm listening to the song now. I feel like a living, breathing cliché. My heart hurts. It's like it's shaking in my ribcage, like the bass in the song is loud enough to make my insides vibrate. I don't want to see him, I don't want to touch him, I don't want to hear him, I don't want to hold him, I don't want to want him, I don't want to have him, I still want him... He won't let me.

I don't want anything. I want limbo. I don't want him. I still want him. I don't want him.

Why doesn't he just leave me alone?

You can tell me to get over him all you want, but be aware that I've been telling myself that for ages. I hope that even though I won't get any closure from him, perhaps writing this will give me some. I could keep this private, but there's something about posting it here that makes me feel better.

Here is the full song: "Auf Achse" by Franz Ferdinand.

You see her, you can't touch her
You hear her, you can't hold her
You want her, you can't have her
You want to, but she won't let you
You see her, you can't touch her
You hear her, you can't hold her
You want her, you can't have her
You want to, but she won't let you

She's not so special so look what you've done, boy
She's not so special so look what you've done, boy
She's not so special so look what you've done, boy
She's not so special so look what you've done

Now you wish she'd never come back here again
Oh, never come back here again

You see her, you can't touch her
You hear her, you can't hold her
You want her, you can't have her
You want to, but she won't let you

You see her, you can't touch her
You hear her, you can't hold her
You want her, you can't have her
You want to, but she won't let you

She's not so special so look what you've done, boy
She's not so special so look what you've done, boy
She's not so special so look what you've done, boy
She's not so special so look what you've done

Now I'm nailed above you
Gushing from my side
It's with your sins that you have killed me
Thinking of your sins I die
Thinking how you'd let them touch you
How you'd never realize
That I'm ripped and hang forsaken
Knowing never will I rise
Again

You still see her
Oh, you hear her
You want her
Oh, you want to
You see her
You still hear her
You want her
You still want to


And he'll never know...

Saturday, July 3, 2010

I like this 22:

Dear Globlets,

I like this:
"Most men pursue pleasure with such breathless haste that they hurry past it."
- Soren Kierkegaard
Hmm... this reminds me of someone.